%\n  Influences  of  |lnral  XUt, 


AX 


ADDRESS 


UELIVKREU  BBFOBB  THE 


NORFOLK    AGRICULTURAL   SOCIETY, 


At  Dedham,  Sept.  29,  1959. 


HENRY  F.  DURA  NT,  ESQ. 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  SOCIETY. 


BOSTON: 

J.  M.  HEAVES,  PRINTER,  81   CORNHILL. 

1860. 


Clje  Infhienrts  of  Txural  KUt, 


AN 


ADDRESS 


DELIVKRF.D   BEFORK   TnR 


NORFOLK   AGRICULTURAL   SOCIETY, 


At   ncflhnm,  Sept.   «»,  IgSO. 


HENRY    F.    DURANT,    ESQ 


PUBLISHED    BY     THE     SOCIETY. 


BOSTON: 

J.  M.   HEWES,  PRINTER,  81    CORNHILL. 

18  6  0. 


ADDRESS. 


Mr.  President,  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  : 

It  is  very  true  that  I  am  not  here  to-day  to  attempt  to  give 
you  any  instruction  in  agriculture,  scientific  or  practical ;  I  have 
no  claims  to  be  heard  upon  such  subjects,  and  I  am  very  much 
afraid  that  if  I  should  make  the  attempt  you  Avould  all  laugh  at 
my  farming.  I  understood  very  well  "when  I  was  requested  to 
address  you  upon  the  subject  of  which  you  have  heard,  that  this 
day  and  occasion  were  not  devoted  solely  to  an  interchange  of 
experience  and  opinions  upon  the  important  practical  questions, 
the  old  knowledge,  the  new  lights,  the  experiments,  the  success, 
and  the  progress  of  agriculture.  These,  indeed,  are  among  the 
foremost  objects  of  your  association,  but  there  is  a  common  ground 
where  we  can  all  meet  to  learn  something  from  each  other. 
There  are  other  objects  in  this  Society,  there  arc  other  uses  in 
agriculture,  than  the  growing  of  corn  merely.  There  are  other 
lessons  to  be  learned  in  the  wide  fields  and  the  green  meadows, 
than  the  art  of  the  best  soils,  and  manures,  and  crops.  The  coun- 
try has  other  instructions  than  in  thrift  and  good  husbandry,  and 
we  shall  do  well  to  pause  for  a  while,  even  in  the  bustle  and 
excitement  of  a  day  like  this,  to  interchange  our  thoughts  upon 
the  objects  and  uses,  the  influences,  the  ends,  and  the  aims  of 
this  rural  life — this  home  in  the  country  which  we  can  all  share 
and  enjoy,  and  by  which,  if  we  will,  we  can  all  be  improved  and 
elevated.  Let  us  try,  then,  to  understand  this  mystery  of  Hving. 
Let  us  search  out  the  keys  to  these  secrets  and  riddles  which 
1 


surround  us.  Let  us  endeavor  to  understand  what  this  life  in  the 
country  is.  Let  us  know  whether  it  is  indeed  good  for  us  to  be 
liere. 

Do  not  fear  that  I  am  about  to  inflict  upon  you  any  of  those 
sentimentahties  of  sweet  rural  felicity,  which  were  at  one  time  so 
much  in  fashion.  The  day  of  that  unreal  pastoral  poetry  is  over. 
All  those  pictures  of  wonderful  shepherdesses,  with  unimagina- 
ble crooks,  and  most  extraordinary  flounces,  tending  gentle  sheep, 
only  less  simple  than  themselves,  while  their  faithful  swains,  in 
doublet  and  hose,  the  very  pink  and  point  device  of  fashion,  piped 
all  the  dreary  day  their  love  and  happiness,  until  one  is  fain  to 
believe  that  even  an  anticipated  hour  of  that  purgatory  in  which 
good  Catholics  believe,  would  have  been  a  relief, — all  these  are 
gone,  or  live  only  in  the  fading  paper  hangings  of  some  quiet  old 
mansion,  or  in  the  more  faded  pages  of  Laura  Matilda,  and  the 
Delia  Cruscan  school. 

AVe  are  too  practical,  too  much  in  earnest,  too  thoughtful  also, 
to  accept  these  vague,  unreal  dreams,  or  be  satisfied  with  such 
views  of  rural  life. 

"What  is  this  living  then — this  life, — whether  it  be  life  in  the 
city,  or  in  the  country  ?  It  is  education — education  in  the  largest 
and  widest  sense,  tliat  is  the  great  mystery  of  life.  We  are  not 
here  to  pass  away  a  measured  number  of  years  only,  a  pebble 
can  do  that,  the  dumb  beasts  do  that ;  we  are  here  to  educate, 
to  unfold,  to  develop  ourselves.  Not  the  education  of  schools  or 
college,  or  books  alone,  but  the  education  of  living,  the  develop- 
ment of  heart  as  well  as  brain,  of  the  afl'ections  and  moral  nature, 
as  well  as  the  understanding — and  of  those  higher  faculties,  which 
are  the  earnest  and  the  prophecy  of  that  other  life,  for  which  they 
are  unfolding,  even  as  the  wings  of  the  fledgling  in  unfolding,  are 
the  promise  and  prophecy  of  his  future  migrations,  beyond  the 
mountain  and  across  the  wide  ocean.  I  hold  then,  that  beyond 
all  question,  as  compared  with  city  life,  this  life  in  the  country, 
for  all  the  objects  and  ends  of  this  real  culture  and  education, 
gives  to  man,  not  only  the  best,  but  the  indispensable  opportunities 
and  advantages  :  the  only  text  books,  the  true  great  hbrary,  the 
real  instruction,  the  best  teachers. 

Although  this  theme  is  far  too  wide  for  any  address  like  this, 
let  us  examine  it  m  a  few  aspects,  and  consider  a  few  thoughts, 


at  least,  •wliich  may  be  suggestions,  leading  to  future  meditation 
and  reflection. 

First,  then,  in  a  practical  and  utilitarian  point  of  view  merely, 
this  rural  life  educates  and  instructs  us  all,  and  repeats  its  lessons 
daily  and  hourly,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  There  are  higher 
ends  in  life,  most  certainly,  than  its  merely  utilitarian  and  practi- 
cal necessities.  There  are  higher  objects  of  knowledge  than 
what  wc  call  common  sense.  There  are  nobler  pursuits  than  mak- 
ing money  or  owning  houses  and  lands.  But  the  daily  lessons  of 
utility,  the  practical  duties  and  obligations  of  life,  are  necessary. 
You  know  very  well  that  the  ripe  juices,  the  enriching  sweetness 
of  corn  and  grain,  would  all  be  worthless  and  in  vain,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  hard  and  tasteless  flint,  the  silex  which  forms  the  sup- 
porting stalk  and  stem  of  the  waving  grain  and  the  golden  corn. 
Even  so  is  it  with  life :  there  are  laws  which  we  must  obey,  and 
hard  and  distasteful  lessons  which  we  must  learn — supporting  and 
sustaining  lessons  of  prudence,  of  utility,  and  of  practical  duty. 

Reflecting  upon  these  subjects,  I  cannot  but  believe,  that  fore- 
most among  the  daily  lessons  of  life  in  the  country,  is  nature's 
harsh,  but  kindly  democracy,  not  the  democracy  of  parties,  but 
that  lofty  and  genuine  republican  democracy,  which  is  higher  than 
politics  or  parties — the  democracy  which  teaches  us  the  dignity  of 
labor — the  true  self-respect  and  independence  that  we  gain,  when 
for  the  first  time  we  realize  the  great  truth  which  nature  teaches, 
that  the  only  real  life  of  a  true  man  is  devoted  to  patient, 
thoughtful  labor.  Let  us  not  shrink  away  from  this  first  aspect  of 
rural  life  as  if  from  a  harsh  teacher,  for  this  law  is  the  lesson  of  a 
mother's  love,  and  with  it  we  hear  from  the  same  voices — of  the 
dignity  of  labor,  of  the  happiness  which  labor  alone  can  give. 

If  we,  listen  more  earnestly,  if  wc  look  higher,  we  learn,  too, 
that  labor  is  the  only  true  nobility,  that  work  truly  is  worship. 
This  is  not  the  lesson  of  every  day  life  and  experience  only,  but  it 
leads  to  loftier  ends  also.  Remember  the  brilliant  example  of  that 
great  man  who  has  told  us,  in  the  story  of  his  "  Schools  and 
Schoolmasters,"  the  influences  of  nature  and  this  rural  life  upon 
his  own  culture.  Hugh  Miller,  the  wonderful  stone  mason  of 
Cromarty,  learned  and  practised  these  lessons  well,  and  he  ham- 
mered away,  year  after  year,  at  the  wild  quarries  of  the  Old 
Red  Sandstone,  until  they  surrendered  up   the  secrets  which  had 


6 

been  given  to  their  keeping  unnumbered  ages  ago,  and  in  toil  and 
sorroAv,  and  gladness  and  deep  exultation,  he  read  there  the 
wondrous  story  of  the  rocks,  the  marvellous  annals  of  Creation. 

Think  of  this  for  a  moment,  as  it  reveals  itself  to  us  in  the  prac- 
cal  form  of  one  fundamental  law  of  life — the  great  law  of  "  No 
work,  no  wages  !" 

We  sometimes  hear  the  complaint,  "  Oh,  I  have  no  luck  ;  every 
thing  you  do  seems  to  prosper,  but  all  I  do,  goes  wrong!"  Not 
so ;  the  law  is,  you  must  work  if  you  wish  for  wages.  Life  is  not 
to  be  trifled  with,  it  deals  in  no  chances,  no  good  luck,  but  in 
certainties  only.  The  great  wheels  revolve  invisibly,  slowly,  but 
just  as  surely,  just  as  inevitably  as  machinery.  The  laws  of 
nature,  the  sure  sunrise,  the  sure  sunset,  winter  and  summer 
are  not  more  unchanging  than  the  great  laws  of  life,  which,  whoso 
will,  can  read.  Life  deals  with  certainties  only  :  and  the  harvest 
doth  not  roll  its  great  golden  waves  in  the  West  winds  of  Autumn, 
unless  the  seed  were  sown  months  ago  in  the  Spring. 

In  the  city  this  is  not  so  :  there  are  more  fluctuating  waves  in 
the  current  of  life.  Men  grow  suddenly  rich,  or  poor  ;  property 
doubles  in  value,  or  it  becomes  worthless.  A  prosperous  adven- 
ture, a  bold  speculation — Lord  Timothy  Dexter's  "  warming-pan 
voyage  to  the  West  Indies,"  a  rise  in  stocks — all  these  may  bring 
fortune,  as  well  as  a  life  of  prudent  industry ;  and,  although  my 
settled  conviction  is  that  all  these  even  are  the  results  of  invaria- 
ble laws,  not  of  what  we  without  reflection  call  chance  or  luck,  yet 
the  proofs  are  not  so  obvious,  the  great  chain  and  sequence  of 
cause  and  effect  is  not  so  easy  to  understand  as  here  in  the 
country. 

On  the  contrary,  how  intelligible  are  the  lessons  of  prudence, 
of  foresight,  of  thoughtfulness,  which  the  farmer's  life  teaches  him. 
No  day  but  brings  its  duty,  no  season  but  brings  its  necessary 
labor.  The  farmer  does  not  talk  of  luck  or  chance,  or  believe 
that  a  fortunate  rise  in  stocks  will  fill  his  barns.  The  seed  must 
be  sown — but  that  is  not  all ;  nature  never  gambles  ;  she  has 
taught  him  that  she  never  deals  in  chances  ;  the  seed  must  be 
good — the  ground  must  be  ploughed.  He  may  manure  his  land 
well  or  ill,  but  he  knows  there  is  no  chance  about  it ; — unless  he 
manures  his  fields,  they  tell  him  we  have  no  good  luck  for  you  ; 
real  estate  may  rise  without  manure,  but  corn  will  not. 


The  corn  must  be  cultivated  too,  and  weeded,  and  cared  for, 
stocks  and  merchandise  may  increase  in  value  without  your  hibor, 
the  root  of  all  evil  may  grow  without  cultivation — no  other  root 
but  weeds  only  will — and  whether  that  is  not  a  very  noxious  and 
dangerous  weed,  is  a  question  about  which  there  are  many  opin- 
ions. This  is  but  one  illustration  ;  consider  in  how  many  forms 
these  lessons  arc  repeated  to  you  in  your  daily  life  ;  consider  of 
hoAv  many  prudent  virtues  they  are  the  necessary  foundation. 

Do  they  not  teach  you  also  that  the  same  laws  regulate  your 
social  position,  your  moral  being  ?  If  you  neglect  your  duties  to 
your  neighbors,  do  you  hope  to  have  their  esteem  ?  If  your  life  is 
a  daily  routine  of  dishonesty,  do  you  expect  to  be  in  good  repute  ? 
If  your  life  is  immoral  and  dissipated,  does  it  not  wear  away  your- 
self, your  name,  your  mind,  and  your  moral  nature  ? 

Daily,  almost  hourly,  even  in  the  city,  although  repeated  in 
more  doubtful  and  difficult  language,  do  I  see  new  proofs  of  that 
other,  but  similar  law — an  opportunity  never  comes  back  again. 
But  in  the  country  this  is  always  before  you.  Does  the  seed-time 
come  back  again  ever  ?  Can  you  ever  put  off  until  to-morrow  tlic 
duty  of  to-day  ?  Were  I  to  sum  this  all  up  in  one  word,  there  is 
but  one  which  I  know  comprehensive  enough  to  embrace  it  all, 
and  that  is  indeed  a  word  full  of  meaning — labor  !  "  Thou  shalt 
labor"  is  the  commandment  which  life  daily  repeats  to  us.  Every 
man  has  his  task  set  before  him,  and  the  duty  of  patient,  thought- 
ful labor  is  his  blessing  ;  or,  neglected,  it  becomes  his  bane.  Let 
us  reason  together  upon  this  subject,  and  we  shall  J5nd  that  there 
is  in  all  this  the  deepest  cause  for  gratitude.  It  is  an  answer  also 
to  those  complaints  of  which  I  spoke — those  grumbling  complaints, 
so  unworthy  of  a  true  man.  How  often  do  you  hear  it  said,  how 
often,  too,  do  you  repeat  it, — "  Oh  !  my  farm  is  poor,  this  New 
England  soil  is  barren,  the  West  is  the  only  place  for  farmers  !" 
or,  "I  am  too  poor  to  farm  to  advantage,"  or,  "  ray  education 
was  neglected.  I  cannot  go  ahead  and  better  my  condition,  like 
my  neighbor  so  and  so," — or  worst  of  all,  "  I  have  no  luck,  every 
thing  has  turned  against  me."  All  this  is  false,  unspeakably 
false.  These  are  not  the  lessons  of  living,  grumble  them  hourly 
if  you  will,  sit  sulking  like  a  child  in  the  corner,  and  let  the 
world  go  by  you  if  you  will ;  but  these  are  not  true  ;  on  the  con- 
trary there  is  no  New  England  farmer,  who   reflects,  who  really 


8 

docs  his  otvn  thinking,  but  thanks  God  daily  that  bis  heritage  is 
given  to  him  here  in  this  cold  clime  ;  on  this  soil  which  yields  to 
labor  only,  rewards  labor  only.  A  true  man  does  not  grumble 
because  he  was  not  born  with  a  golden  spoon  in  his  mouth  ;  he 
knows  that  gold  is  a  soft  metal  and  does  not  wear  well — iron  is 
better.  There  is  no  one  here  to-day  who  is  any  thing,  who  has 
made  himself  any  thing,  who  feels  that  he  is  a  living,  real  man — 
who  does  not  in  his  heart  of  hearts  thank  Heaven  that  he  was  not 
born  rich. 

How  false  and  shallow  is  this  complaint  of  one's  lot  in  life, 
this  complaint  of  our  toils  and  labors.  The  exact  truth  is, 
that  the  primal  curse,  as  we  call  it,  "  in  the  sweat  of  thy  face 
shalt  thou  eat  bread,"  is  a  blessing  in  disguise,  perhaps  the 
hiy;hest  blessing.  This  is  the  real  and  earnest  belief  of  our 
age  :  the  age  of  iron  is  passed,  and  the  age  of  gold  is  pass- 
ing away  :  the  age  of  labor  is  coming ;  already  we  speak  of  the 
dignity  of  labor,  and  that  phrase  is  any  thing  but  an  idle  and 
unmeaning  one ;  it  is  a  true  gospel  to  the  man  who  takes  in  its 
full  meaning ;  the  nation  that  understands  it  is  free,  and  indepen- 
dent, and  great.  The  dignity  of  labor  is  but  another  name  for 
liberty.  The  chivalry  of  labor  is  now  the  battle  cry  of  the  old 
world,  and  the  new.  We  hear  it  from  England,  great,  brave  old 
England  ;  sometimes,  too,  though  more  faintly  and  doubtfully, 
from  sorrowful,  struggling  Italy.  Cherish  these  brave  thoughts, 
then,  in  your  hearts  ;  let  those  noble  words,  the  dignity  of  labor, 
be  your  battle  cry,  as  you  fight  the  battle  of  life.  The  age  pro- 
claims these  truths  at  last ;  but  nature,  the  green  fields,  the  wav- 
ing harvests,  proclaimed  them  long  ago.  Ask  your  cornfields  to 
what  mysterious  power  they  do  homage  and  pay  tribute,  and  they 
will  answer,  to  labor.  In  a  thousand  forms  nature  repeats  the 
truth,  that  the  laborer  alone  is  what  we  call  respectable — is  alone 
Avorthy  of  praise  and  honors,  and  rewards.  In  other  years,  men 
paid  almost  divine  honors  to  the  successful  heroes,  in  their  bloody 
wars ;  the  soldiers  returned  home  in  stately  procession,  and 
triumphal  arches  were  built  in  their  honor,  with  silken  banners 
fluttering  from  their  sides,  and  bright  garlands  adorning  their 
sculptured  stones.  These  splendid  structures  were  the  tribute 
which  man  in  those  by-gone  days  paid  to  the  victorious  soldier ; 
but  nature  does  honor  to  her  peaceful  soldier  still,  and  as  every 


9 

humble  laborer  seeks  his  home  at  nightfall,  a  more  majestic  arch 
of  triumph  soars  above  him,  and  he  marches  bravely  forward, 
conscious  of  a  day  of  dut\',  and  of  successful  toil,  under  that  eter- 
nal arch,  which  was  buildod  Avhcn  tlie  foundations  of  the  great 
deep  were  laid.  The  sunset  flings  silken  banners  of  crimson  and 
gold  along  its  stately  sides,  and  the  constellations  from  its  deep 
blue  vaults  hang  garlands  there,  in  clusters  of  those  holy  stars 
which  are  the  perennial  flowers  of  heaven. 

Our  fathers  had  this  lesson  of  life,  this  lesson  of  self-respect, 
this  lesson  of  the  value,  the  nobility,  the  dignity  of  labor,  taught 
to  them  in  earnest  long  ago.  The  wide  ocean  divided  them  from 
royal  power,  and  from  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  rank  and  custom  ; 
the  woods  and  the  forests  taught  them  to  work  if  they  would  live  ; 
taught  them,  too,  that  the  man  who  changed  the  wild-wood  and 
the  dreary  marsh  to  happy  home,  had  done  something,  Avas  a 
man,  was  better  and  more  to  be  respected  than  the  rich  man, 
who  might  purchase  or  inherit  it ;  taught  them  that  the  tangled 
bushes  and  the  rank  weeds  and  the  grey  moss  would  grow  over 
the  man  who  did  not  work — taught  them  that  the  man  who  could 
rule  his  farm,  could  rule  himself;  and,  finally,  when  they  came  to 
open  their  eyes  and  look  into  the  matter,  taught  them  all  at  once 
that  they  were  the  real  kings,  and  had  been  kings  all  the  while, 
not  somebody's  son  over  the  sea. 

This  was  the  democracy  which  nature  then  taught  to  them,  and 
repeats  to  us  to-day.  I  love  to  remember  what  naturalists  have 
told  us,  that  the  symbol  of  industry,  the  "  busy  bee,"  was  unknown 
to  America  before  our  Fathers  came  here.  The  Indians  called  it 
the  "  fly  of  the  English,"  and  learned  to  dread  its  approach. 
Even  novr,  in  the  western  prairies,  the  bee  is  the  scout  and  the 
pioneer  of  civilization. 

Let  us  complain  no  more,  then,  of  labor  and  toil ;  let  us  talk  no 
more  of  disadvantages  and  opportunities  and  poverty,  and  self-made 
men.  The  man  who  does  not  labor  has  no  right  here  ;  he  is  in  the 
way,  the  busy  world  crowds  him  out  of  the  path ;  opportunities 
and  advantages  are  all  around  us,  but  they  are  for  the  men  who 
wake  up,  and  open  their  eyes  in  the  morning,  not  for  fops  and 
sluggards.  To  be  born  poor  is  a  blessing,  not  a  curse  ;  the  only 
real  poverty  is  inside  the  man,  not  outside,  and  all  men  who  are 
made  at  all,  are  self-made  men.     Schools  are  good  tools,  and  col- 


10 

leges  and  books,  but  they  must  Lave  men,  not  children  to  use 
them.  There  is  one  great  true  book  written  by  the  finger  of  God, 
and  its  pages  are  opened  all  around  us,  of  which  those  other  books 
are  after  all  only  poor  and  partial  translations  ;  the  true  book  is 
written  as  of  old,  on  tables  of  stone,  written  not  in  ink,  but  in 
letters  of  light,  and  the  wide  sky,  and  the  wonderful  ocean,  and 
the  mysterious  forests,  and  the  green,  cool  meadows,  and  the 
dreaming  flowers,  and  bird,  and  tree,  and  man,  are  its  living 
pictures  and  illuminations.  This,  then,  is  your  birthright,  and 
your  inheritance  ;  not  a  life  of  wealth,  and  ease,  and  repose,  but 
a  life  of  brave  toil  and  trust.  Accept  this  heritage  with  joy  and 
gladness,  work  while  it  is  yet  day.  Let  your  Ufe  be  like  the  tree, 
which  pauses  not  in  its  climbing,  until  it  has  reached  its  ordained 
height, — the  tree  which,  although  rooted  in  the  dark,  cold 
ground,  struggles  towards  the  light,  and  stretches  out  its  great 
limbs,  tossing  and  striving  upwards,  towards  the  sky.  Take  this 
thought  with  you,  but  take  it  in  better  words  than  mine — in  the 
words  of  our  noble  American  poet,  Longfellow,  whose  great  true 
thoughts  have  found  fit  utterance  in  a  psalm,  a  real  psalm  of  life 
— a  fit  poem  for  America  : 

Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest, 
And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal. 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate. 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

But  this  rural  life  does  not  deal  in  utility  alone,  or  in  the  practical 
teachings  of  life  and  duty  only,  it  has  its  lessons  for  the  heart, 
its  influences  upon  the  affections,  its  sweet,  kindly  story  of  home. 
It  seems  a  paradox  to  say  that  you  separate  men  by  uniting  them, 
and  yet  it  is  true.  In  the  country  you  live  on  your  farm,  and 
you  have  neighbors,  though  they  live  half  a  mile  away.  In  the 
city  you  live  in  a  block,  and  you  know  not  even  the  name  of  the 
family  at  your  next  door.  In  the  country,  nature,  by  constant 
laws,  teaches  that  you  are  not  sufficient  for  yourself  alone.  You 
are  dependent  on  your  neighbors  in  a  thousand  ways,  you  need 
friendship  and  sympathy.     You  must  borrow  and  lend,  you  must 


11 

help  and  be  helped.  In  sickness  and  health,  in  sorrow  and  joy, 
in  wealth  and  in  poverty,  there  must  be  a  perpetual  interchange 
of  good  offices. 

As  we  turn  over  the  leaves  of  this  wondrous  book,  there  is 
one  page  in  which  are  inscribed  the  loftiest  thoughts,  the  noblest 
lessons,  the  most  beauteous  pictures  of  life.  There  is  one  word 
which  sounds  and  swells  with  universal  music  to  every  heart — a 
music  of  fears  and  hopes,  of  memories,  of  joys  and  sorrows,  the 
one  old  dear  word  of  "Home!"  How  many  thoughts  cling  and 
cluster  around  it.  How  many  memories  rush  unbidden  With  the 
word — of  the  past  as  well  as  of  the  present — of  those  early  days 
which  we  would  fain  recall,  of  that  old  house  in  the  country  which 
we  loved  so  well,  of  those  green  shadows  which  have  passed  away 
— those  vanished  shadows,  and  the  children  playing  in  the  shad- 
ows, which  we  can  see  far  oflf,  as  if  in  some  beautiful  dream.  The 
light  that  is  not  on  the  land  or  sea,  lingers  always  around  those 
hours,  and  hallows  them  forever. 

Who  is  there  among  you  who  does  not  recall  the  picture  of 
a  happy  New  England  home,  seen  from  the  highway,  as  we 
journey  along  at  eventide ;  or  seen  in  tlie  sweet,  sacred  mem- 
ories of  other  years.  You  seem  to  feel  the  hush  of  peace  and 
repose,  which  dwell  beneath  the  drooping  elm  trees  that  shade 
and  guard  the  door.  The  last  rays  of  the  sunset  are  fading 
in  dissolving  beauty  in  the  West,  and  in  their  soft  light  you 
can  see  the  farmer  who,  by  his  thoughtful  labor,  has  well  earned 
his  repose.  He  is  resting  there  in  the  wide  porch,  looking  out 
over  his  well  tilled  fields,  watching  the  last  fading  traces  of  the 
sunset,  the  first  trembling  beams  of  the  evening  star,  as  he  will 
watch  one  day  for  another  sunset,  and  for  another  evening  star, 
and  will  know  that  it  is  his  morning  star  also.  Beside  him  is  tho 
wife  and  mother — for  what  would  be  the  picture  of  a  home  if 
woman's  sweet  influence  and  empire  were  forgotten  ?  We  should 
miss  the  flame  on  the  altar,  the  fire  on  the  hearth,  the  angel  in  the 
house,  if  her  form  were  wanting  there.  Flowers  are  growing 
in  the  shelter  of  the  porch,  but  fairer  flowers  are  blooming  in  tho 
shelter  of  that  quiet  home.  Her  daughters  arc  with  her,  not 
languid  and  pale,  but  as  fresh  and  modest  iis  the  dewy  rosebuds, 
half  opening  by  the  porch.  On  the  grass,  a  little  apart,  the  boys 
are  gathered  ; — a  little  apart,  for  with  a  growing  sense  of  manli- 

4 


12 

ness  they  are  beginning  to  separate  themselves,  and  lay  their  own 
plans  for  the  fiiture,  studj'ing  out  -what  independence  means — and 
over  all  bends  God's  beautiful  sky  ;  over  them  all  flows  softly  that 
deep  blue  boundless  river,  -which  we  call  eternity. 

As  a  contrast  with  all  this,  think  of  the  homes  of  the  poor  in 
the  city.  The  country  spreads  a  tender,  kindly  grace  over  even 
the  home  of  poverty  ;  the  green  trees  wave  gently  over  the  ruin- 
ous cottage  ;  the  green  moss  conceals  and  adorns  its  decay  ;  the 
wild  rose  and  the  soft-eyed  violet  grow  on  the  grassy  bank.  But 
in  the  city,  the  poor  live  in  narrow,  squahd  rooms,  where  the  sun- 
shine can  never  bring  in  its  blessing. 

"We  build  stately  churches,  and  endow  costly  hospitals,  but  the 
homes  of  the  poor  are  always  the  city's  shame.  I  must  not  now 
dwell  upon  that  subject.  It  is  the  great  reform  which  the  hour 
demands,  the  reform  which  we  must  make,  or  it  will  be  made  one 
day  in  a  rough,  wild  way — demanded  by  justice,  by  charity,  by 
policy,  by  the  love  of  our  country.    But  I  turn  to  a  fairer  picture. 

A  southern  fi-iend  said  to  me  lately,  I  have  been  in  every  State 
of  our  Union,  but  there  is  nothing  so  beautiful  after  all  as  a  New 
England  village.  There  is  an  air  of  refinement  and  good  taste 
about  the  houses  and  gardens,  a  certain  neatness  and  propriety, 
which  is  seen  in  no  other  part  of  the  country.  I  confess  that  this 
flattery  is  very  pleasing,  for  it  is  S'gnificant  of  many  things.  This 
wish  to  adorn  our  homes  is  a  silent  recognition  of  the  truth,  that 
there  is  something  more  than  mere  use  and  thrift  in  the  minds  of 
our  people.  The  house  is  not  a  shelter  only  from  the  seasons  ;  it 
is  the  temple  and  altar  of  our  aSections. 

Near  the  ancient  dwelling-place  of  the  Natick  Indians  there  is 
an  old  farm-house,  with  two  vast,  majestic  elms  before  it,  of  which 
a  significant  story  is  told.  "When  the  Puritan  preacher  in  tliose 
by-gone  days  settled  there  on  that  green  slope  by  the  river 
Charles,  he  conciliated  the  natives  by  his  sympathy  and  kindness, 
and  soon  taught  them  to  love  and  respect  him.  He  had  lived 
there  but  a  few  months,  when  the  Indians  brought  two  young  elm 
trees  from  the  forest,  and  with  much  form  and  solemnity,  planted 
them  before  his  door.  He  asked  their  meaning,  and  they  told 
him  that  they  were  "  trees  of  peace."  These  trees  of  peace  were 
only  slender  saplings  then,  which  a  child  could  carry  in  his  hand, 
but  they  have  grown  to  be  monumental  trees,  venerable  in  their 


13 

majestic  beauty.  The  Puritan  settler,  stern  but  kindly,  the  red 
men,  with  their  dark,  unfathomable  eyes,  have  vanished  away, 
and  rest  beneath  their  shade  no  more  ;  the  old  house  is  fast  fall- 
ing to  decay ;  the  trees,  too,  will  fade  and  fall  some  day,  but  those 
old,  simple  words  have  a  more  enduring  life.  I  never  look  upon 
those  trees,  but  the  words  "  trees  of  peace,"  return  again  with 
sweet,  soothing  music.  Yes,  those  words  have  their  own  natural 
music,  and  will  not  leave  off  their  singing.  Trees  of  peace  !  Can 
you  not  see  those  vast  grey,  gigantic  arms  stretching  out  over  the 
roof-tree  to  shelter  and  protect  that  quiet  home — dropping  down 
their  rich  clusters  of  green  leaves,  and  waving  them  to  and  fro  with 
soft  music  in  the  sweet  sunshine  ? — dropping  down  their  deep  shad- 
ows on  the  soft  turf  ?  Can  you  not  look  back  to  those  old  days, 
and  see  the  young  children  playing  in  the  grass ;  and  the  wild 
flowers  playing  like  children  in  the  shadows  ?  Those  shadows  seem 
deeper,  and  the  green  turf  seems  softer  for  those  old  simple  words 
of  promise,  and  I  have  come  at  last  to  feel  that  every  man  who 
plants  an  elm  tree  to  shelter  and  adorn  the  home  of  his  affections,  the 
home  of  wife  and  child,  plants  a  "  tree  of  peace  there."  The  Indian 
still  sends  it  from  out  the  wild  woodlands  ;  the  sweet  sunshine  and 
the  quiet  shadows  promise  him  peace  and  rest  beneath  its  shade. 

There  is  still  left  to  us  all,  an  inherited  memory  of  that  antique 
Hebrew  feeling  of  the  sweetness  of  repose,  under  one's  own  vine 
and  fig-tree,  of  that  deep  and  intense  feeling  of  repose  which  the 
children  of  Israel,  exiles  and  aliens  in  Egypt,  the  wanderers  for 
forty  years  in  the  grey,  weary  desert,  might  well  feel  when,  amid 
the  green  hills  and  forests  of  Judea,  they  could  find  rest  at  last  for 
their  travel-worn  feet,  could  leave  their  folded  tents,  and  make  them- 
selves homes  at  last  in  that  land — then  so  beautiful  and  fiiir.  "We 
inherit  something  of  that  old,  deep  feeling,  for  we  too,  must  in  some 
way  be  exiles  and  wanderers  before  we  find  repose,  and  the  drooping 
elm  tree  at  the  door,  the  dewy  rose-bush  at  the  window  of  home, 
the  fragrant  honey-suckle  at  the  porch,  all  are  "  trees  of  peace  I" 

This  rural  life  does  not  teach  industry  solely,  nor  cultivate  the 
affections  alone,  it  appeals  to  all  our  higher  faculties,  it  refines 
and  elevates,  it  teaches  us  that  there  is  a  beauty  in  flower  and 
tree,  in  sunshine  and  shadow,  and  in  the  waving  bough,  in  the 
golden  green  light  of  the  woods  and  meadows,  arid  in  the  great  wild 
woodlands,  which  was  not  bestowed  without  purpose,  nor  in  vain. 


14 

We  read  in  that  old  cherished  book,  "  Banyan's  Pilgrim's 
Progress,"  how  Christian,  as  he  journeyed,  "  lifted  up  his  eyes 
and  behold  there  was  a  very  stately  palace  before  him,  the  name 
of  which  was  '  Beautiful,'  and  it  stood  by  the  high-way  side."  As 
we  too  journey  on  in  life's  pilgrimage,  that  stately  palace  rises 
before  us  in  its  hushed  and  solemn  beauty  ;  it  stands  now  as  of 
old  by  the  highway-side,  and  its  lofty  portals  are  thrown  open 
wide,  that  whoso  will,  may  enter  there. 

We  go  to  the  city  to  study  the  picture  gallery,  when  every 
window  Ave  look  from  gives  us  a  picture,  which,  if  we  would  but 
study  it,  mocks  the  painter's  poor  imitation,  a  picture  which  was 
never,  and  can  never  be  painted.  Every  tree,  every  green  shrub, 
every  graceful  bough,  as  it  waves  in  the  sunshine,  will  give  lessons 
in  coloring  and  form  which  laugh  at  the  artist's  brush.  We  go  to 
Italy,  to  see  the  beauties  and  wonders,  and  mysteries  of  another 
age,  while  around  us  lies  the  true  Italy  which  we  should  study. 
One  of  the  most  wonderful  monuments  of  Rome  is  a  stately 
obelisk,  which  has  its  own  strange  history.  Far  back  in  the  dawn 
of  time  it  sojourned  in  Egypt.  In  the  sacred  City  of  the  Sun  it 
lifted  its  red  granite  shaft,  pointing  beyond  the  earth,  beyond 
the  stars,  the  silent  witness  of  the  splendor  and  decay  of  mighty 
empires,  now  lost  in  oblivion.  When  imperial  Home  sent  her  iron 
legions  beyond  the  pyramids,  they  brought  this  wondrous  c  )]umn 
to  Italy,  as  the  proudest  trophy  of  their  conquests.  No  ordinary 
power  was  worthy  to  bear  such  a  costly  gift  to  Rome.  The  sacred 
Nile  itself  was  turned  from  its  channel,  and  sought  it  far  away 
amid  the  silence  of  the  sands — sought  it  in  its  home  in  the  ancient 
City  of  the  Sun,  and  bore  the  heavy  burden  to  the  Mediterrane- 
an ;  the  sorrowful  tribute  paid  to  the  Tiber  by  the  conquered  Nile. 
It  was  carried  in  festal  triumph  to  the  seven-hilled  city,  as  the 
very  seal  of  her  imperial  splendor,  but  it  bore  its  own  dark  omens 
and  evil  destiny  with  it,  over  the  blue  Mediterranean,  and  became 
only  the  prophetic  witness  of  Rome's  decay.  Now,  as  of  old,  it 
stands  amid  ancient  ruins,  the  chronicle  of  a  vanished  religion,  a 
buried  civilization.  Its  tapering  sides  are  carved  Avith  hiero- 
glyphics, wliich  record  the  history  of  ancient  dynasties,  the  wars, 
the  conquests  of  Egypt's  forgotten  kings.  At  its  feet  is  buried 
all  that  made  Rome  great  in  those  old  days  of  valor  and  conquest, 


15 

of  power,  and  pride,  and  splendor.  Now,  as  of  old,  it  stands  in  a 
sacred  city,  unchanged,  while  all  around  it  is  changed,  the  same 
mysterious  and  impressive  monument  of  man's  greatness  and 
man's  decay.  No,  not  unchanged,  for  that  dark  obelisk  of  Egypt 
has  forgotten  its  ancient  worship  of  the  sun,  has  renounced  its 
allegiance  to  the  departed  gods  of  Rome,  and  now  it  points  serene 
and  calm  to  heaven,  lifting  flir  up  in  the  blue  vaulted  sky  the 
sacred  symbol  of  the  cross. 

We  leave  our  homes  and  journey  to  Italy  to  study  there  the 
lessons  of  history,  of  art,  the  wisdom  and  the  beauty  of  a  van- 
ished age  :  but  we  have  before  us  always,  moiamients  more  ancient, 
more  impressive,  and  more  beautiful  than  Rome  can  show.     The 
bumble  grass  which  we  trample  daily  under  our  feet  can  reveal  a 
history  more  ancient,  and  more  strange,  and  secrets  more  marvel- 
lous.    That  slender  elastic  stem,  which  waves  so  gracefully  in 
every  breeze,  which  bends  but  breaks  not  even  in  the  storm,  is  a 
tower  builded  atom  by  atom,  not  of  red  granite,  like  the  obelisk, 
but  of  the  purest  emerald  flint.     Arch  above  arch,  story  above 
story,  it  lifts  its  cells  and  chambers  from  the  dark  earth,  storin--- 
them  as  it  rises,  with  its  ripened  sweetness.     Winding  channels, 
too,  are  formed,  through  which  throb  and  flow  hidden  currents,  as 
mysterious  as  our  own  vital  blood  ;  but  their  secrets  are  as  yet 
undiscovered  and   unknown.     The   delicacy   and  the  strength  of 
that  astonishing  masonry  laugh  at  the  poor  imitations  of  human 
skill.     Is  there  an  artisan  so  skilful  who  could  build  one  of  these 
wonderful  cells,  or  frame  one  of  these  perfect  arches,  a  painter  so 
skilful,  who  on  his  pallet  could  mix  and  mingle  the  hues  of  that  deli- 
cate emerald  ?     The  history  of  that  structure  is  more  ancient  than 
obelisk  or  pyramid,  for  it  dates  back  to  that  wonderful,  unimaginable 
dawn,  when  God  said — "Let  the  earth  bring  forth  grass,  and  it  was 
so."    It  has  had  its  journeys,  too,  and  migrations.     From  those 
pastoral  plains  of  Central  Asia,  which  were  the  ancient  home  of  our 
race,  the  grass  has  followed  man  all  over  the  globe,  at  once  the 
pioneer  and  the  proof  of  civilization — not  as  a  monument  of  bar- 
baric wars  and  triumphs,  built  only  to  decay,  but  of  civilization,  of 
humanity,  and  of  progress  ;  and  the  wild  woods   vanish  before  it, 
and  the  dark  morass  is  changed  to  verdure  as  it  journeys  on. 
Like  that  obelisk  of  which  I  spoke,  it  was  a  worshipper  of  the  sun, 
but  it  has  never  forgotten  its  consecration,  nor  renounced  its  alle- 


16 

glance.  It  is  the  faithful  witness  of  the  divine  power  which  gave 
it  birth,  the  unerring  chronicle  of  His  power  and  majesty.  Its 
religion  has  never  changed  and  can  never  vanish,  but  year 
after  year  it  bears  aloft  the  consecrated  symbols  of  flower  and 
seed — the  flower  that  withers  and  fades,  as  life  must  fade,  the 
seed  that  is  the  fruit  of  departing  life,  the  pledge  and  promise  of 
a  resurrection.  It  has  its  own  hieroglyphics  too,  inscribed  upon 
it,  not  the  records  of  bearded  kings,  but  the  secrets  of  life,  the 
secrets  of  creation — mystic  signs  and  symbols,  the  keys  of  which 
are  lost  to  earth,  and  are  read  only  in  heaven.  Ages  upon  ages 
ago  it  received  the  command  to  bring  forth  seed  after  its  kind, 
and  it  has  never  forgotten  its  trust.  Buried,  like  Egypt's  wheat, 
with  its  mummy  reaper  for  three  thousand  years,  it  never  forgets 
its  duty.  No  human  power  can  make  it  produce  aught  from  its 
tiny  seed,  excepting  "  after  its  kind ;"  and  to-day  it  rears  its 
beautiful  shaft  crowned  with  waving,  graceful  flowers  and  tasselled 
seed  vessels,  as  of  old.  Do  Ave  know  any  thing,  after  all,  of  this 
shghted,  unnoticed  grass  ?  Have  you  really  read  one  of  its  mys- 
teries ?  It  grows  from  the  seed,  you  say — but  how,  and  why  ? 
What  is  hidden  in  that  small  shell,  which  brings  forth  this  strange 
organization  ?  Explain  if  you  can,  one  mystery  of  its  existence, 
one  secret  of  its  growth  and  change,  one  of  the  hidden  sources  of 
its  beauty,  its  strength,  and  its  usefulness  to  man,  and  then  go  to 
Italy  if  you  will,  to  wonder  at  the  obelisk  which  the  sorrowful  Nile 
sent  to  imperial  Rome,  and  study  its  mysterious  secrets. 

This  is  but  one  example  which  I  have  selected,  on  account  of 
its  humility ;  but  the  world  is  overflowing  with  this  wonder  and 
mystery,  which  for  want  of  another  name  we  call  beauty,  and  the 
beautiful.  We  see  it  in  the  fading  sunset,  the  vanishing  clouds, 
in  the  haunted  shadows  of  the  forest,  in  the  dehcate  wild  flowers, 
more  beautiful  and  more  rare,  if  we  would  but  examine  them,  than 
our  coarser  garden  flowers.  It  is  heard  in  the  sounds  of  the 
lonely  wind,  mourning  among  the  pine  boughs,  in  the  music  of  the 
wandering  brooks,  in  that  morning  concert  of  the  birds,  Avhen  in 
full  orchestra,  they  welcome  in  the  dawn,  in  the  voice  of  the 
solitary  thrush,  singing  alone  amid  the  woods,  in  the  deep  quiet  of 
noontide.  The  ancients  in  their  beautiful  fables  symbolized  this 
beauty,  and  told  of  nymphs  who  dwelt  in  the  shadows,  and  who 
haunted  the  trees,  the  mountains,  and  the  waters.     That  beauti- 


17 

fill  fable  has  vanished,  but  the  more  beautiful  reality  remains. 
We  hear  every  where  voices  from  the  spirit  land,  -we  recognize 
every  where  the  footsteps  of  angels  ;  all  around  lie  those  mani- 
festations of  Divine  power  which  refine,  and  elevate,  and  purify. 

One  of  England's  true  poets,  Gerald  Massey,  who  indeed 
learned  in  suffering,  what  he  taught  in  song — himself  a  poor  fac- 
tory boy,  educated  by  poverty,  great  by  the  aid  of  his  struggles, 
sings  thus  in  one  of  his  "  songs  for  the  people  :" 

"  Come  from  the  den  of  darkness,  and  the  city's  soil  of  sin, 

Put  on  your  radiant  manhood,  and  the  Angel's  blessing  win, 

Where  wealthier  sunlight  comes  from  Heaven,  like  welcome  smiles  of  God, 

And  earth's  blind  yearnings  leap  to  life,  in  flowers  from  out  the  sod. 

Come  worship  beauty  in  the  forest  dim  and  hush. 

Where  stands  magnificence  dreaming,  and  God  bumeth  in  the  bush. 

Or  where  the  old  hills  worship  with  their  silence  for  a  psalm, 

Or  ocean's  weary  heart  doth  keep  the  Sabbath  of  its  calm. 

Come  let  us  worship  beauty  with  the  knightly  faith  of  old. 

O,  chivalry  of  labor,  toiling  for  the  age  of  Gold." 

I  am  well  aware  that  such  thoughts  as  these  are  not  the  daily 
companions  of  our  farmers,  the  hourly  emotions  of  all  who  dwell 
in  the  country.  The  farmer  who  hoes  his  corn  does  not  spare  the 
wild  weed  which  grows  there  on  account  of  its  beauty,  nor  when 
he  is  hurrying  to  save  his  hay  does  he  watch  the  sublime  beauty 
of  the  rolling  thunder  cloud,  but  whoever  looks  down  from  his 
lofty  pinnacle  of  self  complacency,  upon  our  plain  country  people, 
and  believes  they  do  not  study,  do  not  reflect,  do  not  appreciate 
what  is  beautiful  and  sublime,  do  not  appreciate  the  great  truth 
that  all  this  beauty  was  not  created  without  an  object,  do  not 
refine  and  cultivate  their  hearts  and  brains  by  the  study  of  it, 
knows  nothing  of  the  hearts  of  our  people,  knows  nothing  of  life 
and  its  lessons.  There  are  churls,  to  be  sure,  who  care  nothing 
but  for  their  fields  and  crops,  who  think  only  of  manure,  and  pigs, 
and  potatoes,  but  they  are  not  representatives  (thank  Heaven)  of 
our  New  England  farmer. 

There  is  a  wild  German  story  of  the  adventures  of  the  student 
Anselmus,  in  which  it  is  related  how  an  old  magician  shut  him  up 
in  a  glass  bottle  and  placed  it  upon  a  shelf  in  his  study.  Poor 
Anselmus  was  unhappy  enough  in  his  narrow  quarters  ;  but  he 
was  not  alone  ;  he  found  on  the  shelf  beside  him,  other  students; 
— Cross  Church  scholars  and  law  clerks,  shut  up  in  bottles  t<X), 


18 

like  him,  but  unlike  him  they  were  unconscious  of  their  confine- 
ment, and  thought  themselves  all  the  while  enjoying  life,  drinking 
double  beer  and  singing  hke  true  students  "  Guadiamus  igitur." 
There  is  much  significance  in  that  story  ;  many  men  are  shut  up 
in  bottles,  and  all  the  while  are  unconscious  of  it.  You  can  laugh 
to  yourselves,  no  doubt,  and  think  of  many  of  your  neighbors 
besides  the  drunkards,  who  live  shut  up  in  their  own  glass  bottles, 
living  regardless  of  all  the  duties  of  life,  selfish  churls  without 
friendships  or  affections,  who  can  never  grow  better  or  wiser,  or 
more  kindly,  but  only  a  little  more  selfish  and  cold  as  they  grow 
older.  Let  them  remain  there  ;  the  country  will  have  no  useful 
influences  for  them.  They  would  barter  their  birthright  in  the 
stars,  and  exchange  all  that  sweet,  holy  beauty  for  a  single  tallow 
candle  to  light  their  gloomy  dens.  They  would  rob  the  sunset 
clouds  of  their  gold,  if  it  would  but  make  a  httle  dollar  for  their 
pockets.  Every  rose  bush  would  bear  thorns  only,  and  not  flow- 
ers, could  they  but  make  the  laws  of  creation.  Such  churls  are 
not  good  men,  nor  good  farmers  either. 

Nature  hates  a  churl  and  a  miser;  his  fields  are  traitors  to  him, 
his  crops  rebel  against  him,  his  fruits  fail  him.  It  is  but  another 
illustration  of  the  doctrine,  "  No  work,  no  wages  !"  A  farmer  who 
thinks  only  of  himself,  of  crops  and  of  money,  and  forgets  the  duties 
of  man,  of  life,  and  home,  is  false  to  himself,  because  he  is  true  to 
himself  alone  ;  and  by  the  sure,  slow,  certain,  and  inevitable  laws 
of  life,  his  fields  and  his  farm  will  betray  him,  and  be  false  to  him 
also.  But  I  repeat  it,  these  are  not  the  representatives  of  our 
farmers,  nor  the  results  of  rural  life. 

I  have  often  noticed  this  general  difference,  that  in  the  country 
men  reflect  more,  are  more  conservative  and  thoughtful.  In  the 
city,  men  live  by  the  railroad,  and  the  telegraph  ;  the  morning 
newspaper  thinks  for  them  ;  the  excitement  of  to-day  is  forgotten 
in  to-morrow's  news  ;  they  do  business  by  steam  and  electricity, 
and  decide  on  the  spur  of  the  moment ;  they  are  all  fast  men. 
But  in  the  country  there  is  more  reflection  and  thought.  The 
deep  pastoral  solitudes  have  their  uses,  and  their  profound  instruc- 
tions. There  is  always  food  for  thought  here.  In  the  city,  if  we 
pause  and  step  aside  from  the  current,  and  shut  our  ears  to  the 
rush  and  roar  of  life,  we  see  only  the  works  of  man — not  the 
beautiful,  the  elevating  and  refining  works  of  God.     Even  at 


19 

night,  when  wc  creep  home  through  the  streets,  tu-ed  and  worn, 
if  we  look  up  at  the  holy  stars,  there  come  to  us  weary  hopes  and 
despondencies,  which  are  not  to  be  spoken  or  cherished — lonfrinfrg 
and  sorrows  and  memories,  which  are  all  to  be  put  aside  and  for- 
gotten. 

But  in  the  country  you  arc  surrounded  with  wonder,  and  mys- 
tery, and  beauty  ;  you  cannot  escape  them,  they  follow  you  into 
the  dark  shadows  of  the  wood,  they  are  beneath  your  feet,  al- 
though you  trample  upon  them,  they  cluster  around  you  as  you 
stop  to  rest.     A  very  learned  friend  was  speaking  to  me  lately  of 
the  modern  scepticism  as  to  miracles,  and  the  ingenious  doubts 
and  speculations  of  science,  which  disturb  the  ancient  faith  of  so 
many  minds.     I  plucked  the  white  clover  blossom  at  my  feet,  and 
replied,  "  I  need  no  higher  miracle  than  that."     Yes,  that  is  the 
only  miracle  we  need ;  tell  us  how,  century  after  century,  tliis 
humble  flower  has  perpetuated  its  mysterious  birth  and  growth, 
tell  us  why  the  seed  has  kept  its  plighted  faith  to  the  Spring,  and 
year  after  year  has  blossomed    always  the  same,  tell  us  who 
taught  it  to  seek  out  in  the  dark  ground,  or  in  the  invisible  air, 
that  subtle  food  which  it  turns  into  its  own  substance.    Tell  us  how 
this  plant,  which  we  call  lifeless  and  inanimate,  can  produce  from 
its  own  being  that  mysterious  seed  which  man's  wonderful  brain 
not  only  cannot  imitate,  but  cannot  even  understand  in  its  laws, 
its  structure,  or  its  creation  ;  and  we  will  then  talk  of  other  mira- 
cles, and  discuss  probabiHties ;   until   then   we  need  no  higher 
miracles.     How  true  is  it  that  this  world  is  full  of  miracles,  full  of 
teachers,  who  are  all  inspired  ;  and  when  the  sweet  season  of 
Pentecost  comes,  in  its  green  beauty,  they  speak  as  of  old,  with 
tongues  of  fire. 

Listen  then  to  these  voices,  learn  those  psalms  of  life  ;  let  them 
instruct  you  in  the  dignity  of  labor  and  the  duties  of  living  ;  let 
them  teach  you  by  the  serene,  silent  influences  of  beauty  ;  let 
them  steal  gently  into  your  hearts,  and  shape  your  lives  by  their 
sweetness  and  by  their  sympathy — for  those  voices  of  life  and 
nature  are  not  given  without  purpose  nor  in  vain ;  they  are  the 
angel  songs,  which  are  sung  on  earth  and  in  the  sky  :  they  are 
the  sacred  oracles  of  heaven. 

Will  you  go  higher  than  the  farm,  its  uses,  its  thrift,  its  laws 
of  labor — or  than  the  home,  with  its  affections,  its  duties  ?    The 
3 


20 

^\■ay  is  easy,  and  the  path  is  open  ;  the  landscape  widens  as  we 
cHmb  the  hill,  the  air  is  purer,  and  the  vision  more  clear.  This 
great  book  which  we  call  rural  life,  country,  nature,  is  a  beautiful 
story  which  has  no  ending,  its  pages  unfold  ever  new  mysteries  ; 
the  loftiest  genius  finds  information  and  instruction  and  inspiration 
there  ;  the  highest  intellect  comes  there  to  learn.  It  gives  you 
the  "  thoughts  which  lie  too  deep  for  tears,"  the  sunshine,  and  the 
glory  which  is  brighter  than  the  sun.  In  this  marvellous  book  of 
life,  there  is  inscribed  on  every  page.  Excelsior !  Eternal  progress 
is  the  last  and  loftiest  law  of  nature  ;  taught  by  the  tender  flowers 
which  leave  the  dark  cold  ground  and  seek  the  sweet  sunshine, 
unfolding  their  delicate  beauty  towards  the  heavens  ;  taught  by 
the  trees  which  lift  their  green  columns  aloft,  and  from  the  top- 
most limb  that  looks  up  at  the  sky,  point  always  higher  ;  taught 
by  the  never  resting  winds,  which  wander  past  the  lonely  moun- 
tain peaks  ;  taught  by  the  mountains,  which  lift  away  their  grey 
cliffs  above  the  clouds,  and  stay  their  starry  soaring  only  when 
they  have  linked  the  earth  and  the  sky  together — until,  as  you 
gaze  on  their  aerial  summits,  heaven  seems  nearer  and  eternity 
more  sure.  Astronomers  tell  us,  that  it  is  written  in  the  won- 
drous ordinances  of  heaven,  that  the  stars  shall  change  their 
places  in  the  long  lapses  of  time.  The  constellations  which  are 
now  visible  in  our  northern  latitudes  will  disappear  below  the 
horizon,  and  other  stars  will  fill  their  places.  Belted  Orion,  and  the 
white  light  of  Sirius,  and  the  sweet  influences  of  the  Pleiades  will 
pass  away,  and  the  Southern  Cross,  now  seen  only  from  the  Land 
of  Palms,  will  arise  in  its  mysterious  beauty  to  shed  its  tender, 
trembling  radiance  upon  our  midnight  sky.  Yes,  even  in  the 
stars,  which  we  call  fixed,  tliere  is  endless  change  and  progress. 
Let  us  learn  from  them  that  highest  lesson,  and  let  us  seek  to 
make  our  lives  like  the  star  that  hasteth  never — resteth  never — 
but  still  moves  onward  in  its  appointed  way.  We  need  not  to 
wait  for  another  dawn,  for  another  life — we  need  not  wait  until 
we  pass  the  mountain  and  the  river — we  are  on  the  mountain 
now  ;  look  up,  the  river  is  flowing  noiselessly  over  our  heads, 
and — 

"  I'roin  tlie  sky  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  falls  like  the  falling  star, 
Excelsior." 


/' 


